All Scars Tell a Story
by Athena Solaris
Summary: At the time, he thought she would never have to know the truth of that innocuous little question. He would die, and she would live on believing that he had returned her feelings. And after five years, maybe he did. [Tseng and Elena, one shot]


**All Scars Tell a Story**

"_Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start."_

It had been five years since Tseng had received the wound. Even after so much time, and so many other scars and broken bones, that one still persisted in causing him trouble. Five years to the day, and that wound began to ail him once again.

He wasn't the type to dwell on things, especially things that were all too common in his line of work, in the line of duty. But only an inhumanly determined few could or would ignore searing pain, cold sweats, and the unnatural tightening of an old scar over a near fatal wound. It was as if Sephiroth were still alive in that wound, taunting him. Perhaps this wouldn't have happened if he had treated the injury in a timely fashion. But he had told Elena to run and couldn't have brought himself to ask the band of miscreants Aeris had been with for help.

The whole affair was odd, when he thought of it. Aeris had cried when her group found him, even after all the suffering he had put them, and especially her, through. He supposed that meant that his childhood friend had forgiven him, or that maybe she felt there was nothing to forgive in the first place. It was strange how seeing her cry had strengthened his wavering faith in Shinra. They were after the same goal after all. Maybe there were multiple acceptable means to an end. Then he sent them away, into the temple where Sephiroth's precious black materia was waiting.

He had honestly thought he would die there. The thought didn't sadden him, though the misconceptions he would leave behind amused him. He only laughed once, and the wound punished him for it. He had to grit his teeth and ended up biting of a bit of his tongue to keep from yelling at the pain. Still, it was a comfort that he would die an amused man.

Before Hojo's "success" resulted in his wound, he had invited Elena to dinner. The joy on her face stung him almost as much as Sephiroth's sword would mere seconds later. He had just wanted to "let her down easy" as Reno had put it, to clarify things between them.

_I'm flattered, but a professional relationship is my limit._

_It's not you, I'm just not interested._

He had planned to tell her these things, among a thousand others that time had changed so that if he said them now, he would be lying through his teeth.

At the time, he thought she would never have to know the truth of that innocuous little question. He would die, and she would live on believing that he had returned her feelings.

And after five years, maybe he did.

She had defied his direct orders. She came back and dragged him out of the temple. Minutes later, Aeris and her friends rushed out, oblivious to the two Turks hiding just off the path. Seconds after that, the temple disappeared. Elena had saved his life. He decided that, for that, she was entitled to her illusion. Then he finally passed out from blood loss.

He could grudgingly admit that Sephiroth's intervention had been timely. Maybe Leviathan had not forsaken him when he had abandoned Wutai. And all of that, all that he remembered or cared to remember, was why he often found himself believing that yearly torture of his wound to be bearable. Five years to the day, he was finally able to accept it completely, along with what it meant.

The pain subsided, then vanished completely.

Perhaps it was time he told Elena the truth.

_Authoress' notes. This story was, to me, a strange mix of Ernest Hemmingway's _The Sun Also Rises_, Fyodor Dostoevsky's _Crime and Punishment_, and Tseng. I won't bore you with the details of how I see each of them tying in to the story. And no, I don't know what kind of crack I was on either. (I'm not actually on crack, for those of you who can't take a joke.)_

_The quote I used at the beginning comes from Ernest Hemmingway's letters to F. Scott Fitzgerald and reads fully as follows: "Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start, and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously." This is something I think is even more true of love, and that's what I was kind of trying to demonstrate with the whole Tseng and Elena thing._

_Enough of that. It's not my place to get all philosophical, and this _is_ fanfiction. _

_I would appreciate any and all comments on the story. Thank you for reading._


End file.
